


His Favorite Snare

by SimplyLucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hair, Post-Vale, Prompt Fill, Romance, a bit of hair fetishism here...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt by irismoongarden: while traveling Sandor finds Sansa crying. Her hair is a tangled mess and she thinks she will have to cut it off because it is so bad, so he brushes her hair for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Favorite Snare

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was first written for the third round of the SanSan Russian Roulette on LiveJournal.  
> I combined here two of my headcanons: Sandor is obsessed with Sansa's hair and with her back. Hope it's OK...  
> Not beta'ed.

Long red hair.

It had drawn his attention in the courtyard of her father’s castle, the very first time. He remembered what Gerion said about blond women’s hair, now: _Beware of fair hair, boy. They’ll wind their locks around your neck and they will never set you free._ Gerion was wrong. Red hair was much more dangerous.

Her hair color had surprised him when he had found her in the Vale: a dark brown, so dull, so different. After whisking her away, he had bought some soap, so that she could wash the brownish color away. She had recited her thanks, ignoring she wasn’t the only one who regretted her red hair. _Auburn hair,_ he corrected himself, smirking. _She says it’s auburn, not red._

That was before she got sick. Cold baths and nights under the stars were not for little birds. Sandor had panicked when touching her burning forehead. Three days later though, she had emerged from the hut where they hid, starving but cured, healthy enough to focus on the matted braid that made her look like a wilding. And now she  sobbed, cursing the knots, swearing she would have to cut it, repeating it was tangled _beyond repair._ At some point, she even tried to take his dagger before he dragged her back inside the hut and made her sit on the covers.

“You whine, but you don’t even try,” he growled, kneeling behind her. “I’ll do it for you.” Knotted and messy, her hair was like a trap for his long fingers - a trap he gladly jumped in.

After a gasp, she relaxed a bit, confessing: “My mother loved to comb my hair. So did Old Nan.”

He snorted. “Do I look like a fucking wet nurse?”

The smell of her hair tingled his nostrils, like it always did when he sat behind her on horseback. More than once he had wished he could bury his nose in it or fist the red locks; now that his fingers were deep in her mane, combing out the tangles despite her whimpering, his imagination ran wild. Perhaps did she smell more of hay and dirty covers than of lavender, but that scent was enough to arouse him. Under his ministrations, Sansa tilted her head back, yielding to the big hands that detangled her hair. _Fuck._ The collar of her dress showed too much skin for his liking - _or too little,_ he mused. He pictured them on the same spot, him behind her, with his hands fisting her hair for a whole different purpose and the discomfort in his breeches only increased.

As Sansa’s gasps became scarce, the knots disappeared, but he didn’t stop running his fingers through her hair until she shifted and glanced at him over her shoulder. Her blue eyes widened. Sandor’s hands left the red locks, slow and wary like a wild animal freed from his snare and they fell to his sides.  
He gazed at her, taking in the auburn tresses - his favorite snare.

**Author's Note:**

> Gerion's words about fair hair are freely inspired by a quote by Goethe.
> 
> Feel free to comment!


End file.
